


The Witch Who Set This Flame

by Meloncholor



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, Children, Crime, Drama, Drama & Romance, Epic quest, Eventual Romance, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, This is just me reconciling my love/hate relationship with Ulfric Stormcloak, eventually, several people die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23217697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meloncholor/pseuds/Meloncholor
Summary: Tulma, an Altmer from a farm near Ivarstead, is contacted by the Thalmor to be an inside source on the happenings of Ulfric Stormcloak. Things don't go as planned and the Dragonborn will get justice.
Relationships: Ulfric Stormcloak/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. Worlds Away

“The world is unkind and dirty, and full of whoreson Nords and Imperials,” the Dunmer woman who slept in the old empty house next door used to tell her. In that deep, scraggly hagraven voice of hers. Tulma and her sister used to sit on the front porch at night and watch her talk. She would yell about Nords and the Dee-dra until mother would come out and scold them for pestering the elderly. Tulma didn’t know much of Nords or Imperials and didn’t care much to learn. Nothing mattered beyond the fringes of forest that surrounded their ramshackle village. Her father would spend their days teaching them the ‘craft of agriculture’ as he put it, and mother saw to it that they were always fit to hunt in the hours before sundown. 

That was before mother’s older brother came home, and she would be so caught up in their late-night conversations she let them stay out to watch the old woman rave for hours about the nords and the imperials and Az-oo-ra. Tulma asked who Az-oo-ra was once, and the old woman pointed towards the east and said the Nords would close the pass soon if they had their way. The woman shouted less when Tulma asked her things, so she asked more; if only to keep her quiet. Her name was Volta, and her son had gone to Cyrodill to escape the noose, he sent her money every year. 

Tulma’s uncle, Iorveth, didn’t work on the farm with the others. He would sit and watch from the house, widdling away at scraps of old wood with a knife unlike Tulma had ever seen. He was taller and wider than her father was, and his eyes were a warm summer green like mother’s. The carvings would become little gifts for the girls. Figurines of elk and deer and rabbits, and he would always whisper about how the ones on the islands were always bigger. At dinner, he would tell long boastful stories about his travels and Father would grumble obscenities to himself as her mother listened with rapture.

When he left, Tulma decided to follow instead of her sister. Symone had an arranged marriage with a man in Winterhold that her mother had been planning for years, and Tulma had still been working on the farm and hunting since she’s been of age. It was much easier to get Symone her husband, she was dainty and beautiful. Her hair was a stunning shade of gold and her eyes were bluer than the ocean could ever dream of being. Tulma was too gangly and tree-like; much taller than even her uncle. Her hair was black and long like her father's and always in need of a brush. She also had a penchant for swearing and those traits combined with her sharp, angular face didn't make it easy to marry Tulma off. Tulma knew that and accepted it, and saw leaving with her uncle as a much-needed break from the humdrum of farm life.

Tulma had never seen much of Skyrim outside of the village and decided that she didn’t want to see much more of it. She was used to the gentle forest breezes and the canopy of greenery to shield from rain and whatever else the gods try to throw at them. The rest of Skyrim seemed to just be snow and rocks. No color, no sun, just frost and the smell of old goats. Iorveth took them through a large valley, where men thrice as tall as her with gangly limbs and wispy beards had camps that dotted the sparse grass and creeks that Tulma and her Uncle had to sneak past at night. They ate stale bread from the farm and slept during the day so the Nords “wouldn’t get wise,” Iorveth would say.

It’s weeks before they finally see the ocean, churning violently as rain poured on the rocky coast. The water was as gray as the tumultuous sky and just as endless. Iorveth introduced her to the Argonian smugglers they were boarding with. Their eyes were jeweled hues she had never seen before, and spoke in rough accents she struggled to understand. Her uncle gave them quite a hefty bag of coins for their troubles and they boarded the largest ship, _Marsh’s Song._ They took the vessel east, and after several weeks curled up in a damp and cold heap in the hull of the ship, the arrived on another coast, with warm sandy beaches and gentle green hills. Another boat, massive yet dainty on the rolling sea, was waiting for them. It’s a beautiful sunny morning, and the port looked more official than the rocky beach they had left on. There are more people like them there, with high arched brows and ocean blue ethereal eyes. They talked like father used to with deep, soothing tones in an accent she had never heard anywhere else. She and her uncle were ushered by the familiar faces into a white-stone fortress where soldiers and men in dark cloaks were milling around in filed rows.They were given big warm beds to sleep in, her uncle was gone most of the time they were there, only showing up to the mess hall to update her on when they would be leaving again. It was days before anyone spoke to her besides him, and she was the most beautiful woman Tulma had ever seen. Her name was Irivanna, she separated her from Iorveth and cornered her in her office and said she had a job for her, and four days later Tulma left on a ship back to Skyrim, alone. 

Uncle Iorveth was kind enough to pay the Argonians to return her safely, and to send a letter with her explaining to her mother why he couldn’t come home. Mother cried that night. She arrived back in the village after a total of six months, and went back to work. The spells the Thalmor had taught her came in handy on hunting trips, it was much easier to hunt for food when it was already cooked by the time you were finished with it. A woman named Haegar had noticed when she was on a trail to Riften and took her in, much against her Mother’s protests. Once she saw the coin, however, her mother’s separation anxiety faded quickly. And soon Tulma was paid twenty gold a trail to follow the merchant caravans that run through Eastmarch, Whiterun, and the Rift. The gold was slower because of the War, but the khajit and the orsimir were always content with her company, and more than willing to pay extra for her troubles, provided that she kept her ears tucked tightly beneath her hood. Her sister had left for Winterhold when mother had gone to the gods, and Tulma was given the farm after her father followed. The homestead was quiet, and even in such dark times, where many of the families that had stayed here were long gone, the gods had blessed her with bountiful harvests in the summer, and willing patrons in the winter. Then the High King was murdered. She remembered the news being brought just days after the tragedy, and the only other Altmer family in the village picked up and left. Tulma didn’t think much of it, war was war and if a Nord was gonna come for her head, it might as well be in her own home. Two nights later a courier arrived with a handwritten letter from her Uncle. _"To Windhelm, speak to Vagrin Alsimmer"_

-0-

Tulma shuddered, letting go of the reigns to breathe into her palms, diffusing a cloud of air. It had to be barely noon but the snow and clouds blurred the mountain path into a deadly twilight. The only constant in the whirr of white was her Roan horse beneath her, faithfully marching through the storm. Heavy fur was heaped high on her shoulders, keeping the wind from howling past her ears. It had taken three days to get from Ivarstead to Windhelm, and most of that was spent climbing mountains and fighting stubborn Nords for directions. Her last patrons shortchanged her on the trail and she didn’t have nearly enough supplies to successfully make the trip. Hunting rabbits and the odd elk diverted her path too many times to count and the Eastmarch hold wasn’t very hospitable to lost High-Elf travelers.

She tried to think of anything but her numbing fingers and toes. Haegar the Howler would scold her to Oblivion and back for letting a little cold get in the way of a job, but Azura preserve her, she just wanted to make a warm camp and weather the storm. Nirn whinnies and it startles her into looking up, and through stinging eyes, she glimpses light flickering through the blizzard. Tulma kicks her heels and her horse breaks into a gallop, pulling up on a bridge posted by two guards. Each in their Stormcloak finery, without so much as a shiver as the snow showered around them. The emotionless visage of their helmets trailed her and her horse as she slowed passed them. She dismounts at the front gate, leaving Nimb to make it to the stable alone.

She had been to Winterhold once, and assumed most of these Northern cities were similar; high stone walls and a dark, snowy sky overhead. But even though the city was shrouded in constant night, Tulma can’t deny the heat of every glare the smoldering-eyed Nords gave her as she trudged past. Haegar be damned, she’s finding an inn and she’s _going to sleep._

She didn’t bother to read the name of the sign out front, just followed the sound of drunken patrons. The bar was crowded and rough, it smelled of old Nord mead and a goat’s backside but it was serviceable, at least for tonight. She managed to turn some heads as she walked in, Tulma may have disguised herself enough to get inside the city, but she still clearly wasn’t a Nord. And the man up front didn’t seem intent on telling her where she had ended up. “What’s an elf like you doing here?” He drawled, drawing the ire of the rest of the patrons. 

Fearing violence, Tulma sighed and begrudgingly recited, “I’m a mercenary from Rorikstead. I’m here for work.” She reached into her cloak and produced a small pendant. “I work for the company of Haegar the Hound.” The bartender squints at the intricate carvings of the pendant, then back to Tulma before he nods. It satisfies the bartender’s questions at least. The innkeeper was an older woman, too old to see the pointed ears peeking from the mounds of fur piled on her shoulders. She pays for a week’s worth of stay and with a smile, Tulma is given her room keys. She heads past the crowded bar upstairs and immediately flopped into the uncomfortable bed, hoping that she could sleep out the cold from her bones.

It’s not a night of good or restful sleep. She was stiff from her neck to her knees and the blankets she was under smelled of sweat and horse. But, it passed the time until morning, so it wasn’t a complete waste of ten septims. The patrons of the downstairs bar, who were strangely as packed as they were last night, still weren’t very receptive to her arrival. Heavy-browed gazes followed her as she dropped off the rest of this week's payment at the front counter.

The morning air was biting, even though yesterday’s blizzard was long gone. The early-spring sun shone down on the white-blanketed city and reduced all the buildings to vague gray boxes stacked beside each other. The jarl’s castle stood intimidating and proud over her city, stark black smoke curling up from the high chimney towers.

Morning traffic was filled to the brim with laborers and artisans, all seemingly impervious to the bitter cold. Tulma takes a shaky breath of misted air and heads for the Gray District, her contact Vagrin should be home, well not so much a contact as a good friend. The kind of friend that wouldn’t squeal at the first signs of espionage. Thankfully, most of the Nords didn’t let their eyes tarry too long on her as she made her way past merchants and shops into the desolate slum of Windhelm’s Dunmer population. She wore the fur on her shoulders a little less high, making it a bit more obvious that she was a High Elf and not another Nord come to berate them. The air there seemed different, thicker with misery compared to the merchant’s quarter. The elves were bundled to the teeth in furs as dark and gray as their skin, making them look more bear than human. She was crowded beneath makeshift canopies made to shield the denizens from the snow. The unlit side street was difficult to navigate, made worse by the unwelcoming atmosphere. 

She had been to Windhelm only once as a child, on a trading run with her father. They had never gone farther than the merchant’s quarter, and she can see why. There were tons of ramshackle cottages shoved together, forced up against the high outer walls and creeping personal effects into the narrow streets. Elves were everywhere, clumped in bunches around fire pits and in the shadow of some of the taller buildings. Vagrin, to her knowledge, lived in a glorified cellar on the far side of the district in the shadow of the more respected shops.

“You got a lot of nerve walking around like that _elf_.” Azura preserve her, this wasn’t going to be an easy day. She looks up, and it seems not all the Nord vagrants have confined themselves to the merchant’s quarter. The man is wide and imposing, and a head taller than her. He has eye bags scraping the balls of his cheeks and she can smell the mead wafting off of him from several feet away. And even though he’s obviously rather inebriated he has an imposing mace resting on his hip, so no matter what, he was trouble. He’s draped over a wall railing, tossing a scrap of bloodied meat between his teeth like a wild animal. The rest of the alley is vacant and she hopes it's just because the rest of the elves know about him spending his early mornings here. “Aye, you hear me? You’d think those long-ass ears would be good for something other than hanging on a mantle.” He gnaws another bite from the meat, chewing obnoxiously.

Tulma exhales sharply through her nose, if she just ignored him and kept walking, she’d feel a lot better about it later. But if she was honest, burning a Nord to a crisp didn’t sound terrible either. Maybe Malag Bal would have his way today. “You have a problem with the way I’m walking, milk-drinker?” She growls through clenched teeth, readying a rather nasty flame spell beneath her cloak. “It might just be your head spinning from all that piss-mead you Nords drink.”

“The _fuck_ did you just say to me elf-bitch?” The Nord man slurred before hopping off his perch with a wobble. Tulma primed the spell in her palm as he marched towards her, his hand reaching to the mace at his side. But before she can surprise him with a face full of fire, there’s an echoing _snap_ and the man’s eyes go dull and hazy before he stands stiff and meanders off without a word. Tulma is a mix between horrified and impressed as she watches the Nord vagrant wander off aimlessly back into the city.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Broad daylight brawls are your thing now? Can’t say I’m impressed, Tullie.” His voice was smooth and cool, and much louder than it should have sounded. Tulma whips her head around and Vagrin is standing mere inches behind her, hooded and robed like some sort of back alley monk. 

“Fucking shit!” She stumbles back, nearly tripping over her own feet. “You can’t just _do_ shit like that Vagrin!”

“What? The spell or the appearing thing?” He says it all through a brilliant white grin. He turns with a flourish and offers up his elbow, “May I escort you away from this rabble, my lady?”

Tulma rolled her eyes, "Let's just go before that arsehole finds his way back here."


	2. Vagrin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tulma finds an old friend, Vagrin Alsimmer and the meeting has more meaning than either of them realize.

Volta used to send very long letters to her son. Every month she would walk the lonely and dangerous path to Riften and pay any mercenary or adventurer a hefty sack of gold to make it to Cyrodiil to deliver them. She didn’t like to use courier services, and she didn’t trust Imperial envoys any more than the stormcloaks did. A few weeks later another mercenary, grisled from months of hard travel would make their way into their village and hand-deliver another letter, which was always repaid with a warm bed to sleep in and as much food as the adventurer could carry. When Volta got older, and her already gnarled hands grew too knotted to write her letters, she asked the girl who sat with her on the long cold nights to write them in her stead. A request that the girl couldn’t help but oblige. Tulma wasn’t the best writer in the world, but Volta was patient and happy to have the opportunity to talk about her son. Tulma had offered of her own volition to help the old woman traverse the path to Riften, taking her lucky dagger that uncle Iorveth had given her.

When Azura took Volta to her side, it wasn’t long before a man showed up in the village, bringing flowers to a weathered grave. He had skin as black as coal and eyes as red as embers, doubly so since he had been crying at Volta’s front steps. He was all angles and sharp edges, the pristine visage flawed by the long and deep scars that covered the left half of his face. He cried for what seemed like hours on his mother’s porch, clutching a wilted bouquet of deathbells. Tulma’s mother invited him to eat with the family that night, and he filled the empty seat that used to be her uncle’s. He slept in the barn after he had a long talk with her mother about gods know what, and left early the next morning. He left another hand-written letter on a scrap of old paper he must have found in the barn; he couldn’t stay in the village for he had no desire to take up his mother’s lands, so he left for the shrine of Azura to pay his respects with the monks there.

-0-

Tulma was led silently through the Grey Quarter, down the narrow passage towards a modest shop with several more elves huddled out front. Vagrin waved to them as he passed but they regarded him like a rank mule as Tulma was huddled in his shadow. He shrugged, “You’re a bit intimidating,” he mused, “High Elves try not to make themselves seen down here. It’s apparently bad for their business.” 

“They actually let High Elves into the city?” The dark elves’ bloody stares made her uncomfortable, and she sunk deeper into her cape, “Aren’t the stormcloaks afraid of the Thalmor?”

“It’s all about the money Tullie, and you know how those Altmer love their gold.” He led them both behind the shop, to a small garden headed by a large sewer access, hidden by overgrown snowberry bushes, “There are a few shops in town owned by Altmer, and they bring in  _ good _ money, and the Jarl needs to keep this place running right?” He pushed through the bushes and reached down to lift the heavy wooden plate away from the access, revealing a dark hole that stunk of old fish. The ladder propped against its side was rickety at best, a tangled knot of sticks and straw at worst. “Whether it’s a King or a Jarl, they’re all the same, the clink of gold is a music they can’t help but dance to.” 

“You...live, down there?” She pointed at the hole. 

“Not everyone has a farm in paradise, my dear.” He stuck his feet into the pit, sitting on the edge, “Some of us are fine with mudcrab-infested hovels.” He laughed one more time before hopping into the hole, disappearing into the blackness with a crash.

“Meridia help me,” She prays before following suit, dropping down into the Windhelm sewers, splashing up water and staining her leather bracers up to her knees. The sewer was as deep as a creek and the greenish-brown murk rushed down the waterway on both sides, running further into the city. He was right about the mudcrabs. The little shits were scattered all across the floor of the sewers, feeding on whatever muck was stuck to the wet cobblestone walls. The ladder she had neglected to descend was illuminated by the light from the pit overhead, and right in front of her was another wooden door, crusted with moss and algae all around the edges. It was cracked open, and she could see a dim flickering light on the inside.

His place was old and dusty and every corner was filled with cobwebs. But it was warm. He had a dug out hearth in the center of the relatively empty room, and for a moment Tulma was worried about the smoke, but she looked up and a rusted iron grate was above them that all the smoke billowed into, but no light was coming through. Two chairs were sat in front of the hearth with a squat table between them with empty bottles of mead strewn about in front of them. A straw-lined bed was on the far side of the room, distant from the warm glow of the hearth fire. There was a kitchen propped up against the side wall, with rabbits strung up by their ankles and rows of garlic and elves ear dangling in a canopy of fresh herbs. A desk was on the other side, overflowing with papers and inkwells with books shoved between them. 

He sat in a chair with an old goat fur draped across the back, splaying out in the seat like the finest of kings. He gestured to the other chair. “Please, sit.” Tulma ignored the suggestion but stepped closer to the fire, shedding her cloak and depositing it on the floor. She eyed around the room, scrunching her nose at the smell of wet ground and old food. Vagrin made a show of rolling his eyes. “Not up to your standards, my dear Altmer? Sorry I couldn’t get out the sabre cat rug for you.” He laughed. Vagrin’s eyes are drawn to the sheathed sword on her hip, the pommel a carving of a feral hound baring its ivory-carved teeth. The ruby-laden eyes glittering in the dim firelight. She’s worse for wear than when he had last seen her. Her robes were old and in serious need of repair and her eyes were lacking the wistful gleam of an unseasoned adventurer.

“It smells like shit down here.” She spits, avoiding meeting his eyes. At least her shitty attitude hadn’t changed.

“I live in a sewer, Tullie.” Vagrin leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, casting his face in a better light. “Now that you’ve made yourself comfortable, why in oblivion are you here? Haegar can’t have been so careless with your assignment.”

“Haegar didn’t send me, actually.” She reaches down into one of the pouches tied to her sword belt and pulls out a small scrap of yellowed paper. “My uncle Iorveth told me to come to see you.” She holds out the note and Vagrin’s eyes widen in shock. 

“Iorveth!?” He stands up, nearly sending his chair flying back as he whipped around the edge of the fire. He snatched the note from her fingers, uncrumpled it and scanned over the short sentence like he was studying an old and ancient tome. “Azura’s tits, you can’t be serious.” 

“Is that a problem?” She folded her arms across her chest, furrowing her dark brows.”

“Your mother got me in contact with him before I left for Windhelm, a mercenary from Cyrodiil has quite a few talents your eccentric uncle needed at the time, but that’s obvious. I’ve been doing odd jobs for him here and there since well, let’s just say I’ve been doing this for a while.” He turned around to face her, a mournful gleam in his eyes, “The problem is, why did Iorveth send  _ you _ .” He turns away to stomp over to the desk, shoving around the papers in a huff. He plucked a stained page from the pile and held it in the direction of the firelight, squinting at the delicate script that covered the paper. “Here, you’re not going to like the assignment, I can tell you that at least.” He ferries it over to her and she snatched it from him. 

The page is densely populated with her uncle’s rushed handwriting. The almost unintelligible script seemed like it had been done in seconds.

_ Vagrin, old friend.  _

_ It’s been a long time I know, sorry for not writing earlier. Work here has been especially pressing as of late and I’m afraid I must call on that favor you owe me. It isn’t much I assure you, there will be an agent arriving in Windhelm and I need you to relay this letter to them, after that your work is done and you will owe no debts to me. Please, stay safe and warm, and may Azura guide you. _

_ Hello, I apologize for the convoluted game we must play so that you may get your orders. These come directly from Irivanna the Red, lady of House Elderward. In the simplest of terms, you are tasked to infiltrate the ranks of the Stormcloaks and gain rank in the service of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloaks. You will be reporting your progress in short letters addressed to a family member or friend (in case of corruption of the supply line) to an agent indicated to you in the next letter you receive. You are to report any suspicious behavior, the assignments you have been tasked with, your current location, and any knowledge you gain that you would deem useful to the Thalmor. This assignment is not crucial to our efforts, so you have no need to take unnecessary risks, but be cautious, for you will not have an easy entrance into their ranks. Use your talents to the Stormcloak’s advantage, and be timely with your reports. Your next letter will be delivered once we have confirmed your entrance into the Stormcloak ranks. _

_ May Julianos be with you always, _

_ Iorveth the White _

She read over the letter again, and again. It had been so long since she had any contact with someone she could call family, it seemed so strange to read something that didn’t seem meant for her. All Thalmor formalities and none of her Uncle's rugged and defiant charm.

“I don’t get why they would send a High Elf, do they just want to throw away all of their efforts?” Vagrin interrupts her train of thought while pacing in front of the fire, holding his chin. “There’s no way that they’re going to just let you in the palace that easily, what was Iorveth thinking?”

“I don’t know,” She doesn’t move her eyes from the page, trying to glean some hidden meaning from the words, “I guess I have to go to the palace now.”

“Fucking Oblivion,” Vagrin curses, “No fucking way, this isn’t going to work. They’re going to get you killed.” He looks at her, and she can finally see how much he’s aged. The deep scar covering the left half of his face was sunken and sagging and the once ember color of his eyes was a turning to fading sunset. His breath is heaving and he starts muttering to himself, clenching and releasing his fists as he starts to pace again. “Listen, you can’t go to the palace. You, shit, I don’t know what you can do but you can’t go there, we can leave the country or something, but they  _ will _ kill you and they  _ will _ kill me, do you understand?” He snaps his eyes back to her, his pupils are flecks of black in a sea of quivering red. “I know some Khajit, have a nice little ship that heads to Hammerfell, we can get to Cyrodiil from there I’m sure, just have to send a few letters…”

Tulma’s brows furrowed, and she gingerly folded the paper. “Vagrin, I can’t leave the country,” She said sternly, “I don’t have to go in and kill anybody, I’ll be fine.” 

His shoulders sink again, thoroughly defeated, “Listen, Tullie, I don’t think you understand, these aren’t nice friendly soldiers that’ll have you pay your fine and you can mosey your way back out of the city like some common fucking vagabond,” He ran a hand through his mussed curls, visibly sweating, “You’re a  _ spy _ Tullie, and they don’t charge them fines, they torture and kill them and string them up for others to see.” He hobbled over to her and snatched up her shoulders. “We  _ need _ to leave!”

Tulma’s viridian eyes were vacant and just searched Vagrin’s face with a displeased frown. “I can’t do that Vagrin,” She whispered, “I made a promise, I have to keep it.” His eyes were twitching with panic and fear, his grip on her shoulders harder than it should be. But she places her own hands on his arms and shoves him away with ease, once again putting a reasonable distance between them. 

“But…” He starts.

“Thank you for bringing this letter to me, my friend." She turns and heads for his front door, her soaked boots squishing on the stone floor. 

“Ugh, Tullie, wait.” Vagrin caught her by the shoulder, still shaking, “Take this at least.”

She turns around, and Vagrin is holding a hefty bag of coins weighing down his palm. “I’ve been saving this for an emergency. Use it to get some new clothes or at least a bath.” He sniffled, “I don’t want you dead in rags, my girl, your Altmer brethren would be ashamed of you.”

Tulma managed a small smile and took the coins, “Thank you, Vagrin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! So I've been working on a couple of things, but this one ended up being finished first, so here it is! These passion projects are kind of a double-edged sword though, because this is a pretty niche fandom to write fanfiction for, yet I still put a lot of time and effort into these chapters because I just love it so much. A kudos and comments are always appreciated! Leave a comment if you like, if you don't, or if you just want to call me a fake gamer girl.


	3. Candlehearth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tulma fights in Candlehearth Hall

After she closed the wooden hatch and emerged back into the vacant street, the sun had started to set. A more bitter cold had settled on the city, and not even the elves from earlier were crowded around their fires anymore. The wind beat against Tulma and the buildings, whipping at her cheeks as she made her way through the Grey Quarter to the tavern at the helm of the city, following the sounds of people.

Like the night before, the mead hall was full of patrons fresh from the cold, looking to warm themselves with drinks and company before heading back to their homes for the night. A different bartender is wiping the counter when Tulma strides in, and she’s less disgusted by Tulma taking up space there. Shivering, the elf loosens the snow from her shoulders and walks up to the counter, before she can get a word out, the woman chirps a bit too cheerily for Tulma’s taste.

“Hello! You must be the woman who rented out a whole week!” Her toothy smile was grating, and she was loud enough that Tulma could feel gazes turn their way, “My nan told me about you yesterday, I didn’t think you’d be an elf,” More of the hall fell silent when the ‘e’ word spilled from the girl’s lips. She smiled and Tulma didn’t return the gesture. The girl was short with blonde curls knotted into a frizzy plait. A squealer, by Tulma’s standards, she could tell from the way the girl scanned the elf’s face, the way she spoke just a bit too loud for Tulma’s comfort. Her fingers twitched on the washrag, and her eyes shifted from the woman in front of her to somewhere over Tulma’s shoulder. “I’m Susanna, can I get you something?” 

Tulma’s eyes narrowed, but she reached into her pocket and produced a few coins. “Venison Stew, if you’ve got it, and there’s a few more septims in it for you if you can shut your damn mouth about me being an elf.” She spat, and the girl’s eyes went wide for a second. Tulma drops the coins on the counter and the girl still doesn’t move, “Well? Go on!” She grits through her teeth sharply and the girl flinches and scurries off, forgetting her coin. Rolling her eyes, Tulma wanders off further into the hall to find a table. She notes that none of the patrons here are elves. Smoldering-eyed Nords were drinking and slurring along with the bard’s songs, and with a small stroke of luck ignored Tulma as she passed by.

She finds a spot upstairs, a corner table with space to see out of the back windows, and a decent view of the rest of the hall. She shed her heavy cloak, draping it on the back of her chair. She absentmindedly drifts a hand down to the shortsword at her side, running her fingers over the carved pommel. The weight of it there was reassuring, and she could ease back into her seat despite the cheap leather. She scans the room, assessing the drunkards. They were too occupied with pestering the bard to care about an elf in their midst now.

The poor bard was still singing, or at least trying to. It must have been difficult to play over the drunken patrons guffawing at their own attempts to sing along. From the comfort of her table, Tulma could continue to people-watch with impunity. Mercenaries and laymen alike are scattered throughout the tavern. As the bard strikes up with another flat chord on her lute, the young bartender ascends the stairs, carrying a steaming bowl of Tulma’s stew. She’s slow to approach, and many of the male patrons accost her as she strides past, but she sets the stew down at the farthest end of Tulma’s table with shaking hands. “C-can I get you anything else?” She whimpers, inching away from her table.

“A cold Honningbrew, and uh,” She reaches down to fondle the bag of coins on her hip, “How much are hot baths here?” 

“5 septims,” The girl replies.

“Great, make sure it’s actually hot alright? There’s gonna be trouble if it isn’t, girl.”

“Yes ma’am, right away ma’am!” The girl scurries off again, but as she descends the stairs, Tulma feels another pair of eyes watching her.

There’s a mercenary sitting only a few feet away. A bit older than some of the others at his table, with a garish orc greatsword rested against the table to his side. His hair is sun-bleached and every line of his face was dramatized by the hall’s roaring fireplace. He had a tankard clutched in a gloved fist, and a single silver-blue eye watched her every move. A garish scar disfigured the right half of his face, and she could see a peek of the milky white of his other eye. His buddies whispered off-handedly into his ear, but he didn’t respond. Tulma held his gaze, even as she pulled over her bowl of stew, matching its vindictive slant. After a few moments of tense silence, Tulma could hear the girl ascending the stairs again.

“Susanna, hold it right there,” He said gruffly as the girl crested the last step. His voice was deep and gravelly and it had a bite that didn’t sit well in Tulma’s ears. His compatriots giggled in girlish delight as he knocked back the rest of what was in his tankard and slammed it on the table. He stands up, and the whole hall falls still. 

“Stenvar, you don’t--” The girl starts, but she’s cut off.

“No, I’ve had enough of these damn elves.” He lumbered over to Tulma’s table, leaving his sword behind. She takes another sip from her stew, sighing.

“Is there a problem?” She snided into her bowl, “I got a bath to get to.”

“I don’t like the way you been talking to Susanna, _elf._ ” He slurred through clenched teeth, his breath was a miasma of ale and shitty food, and Tulma couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose in disgust. “Now, I’m a nice man, so I’ll let you off easy if you apologize.” His milky white eye twitched and Tulma set down her stew, disgusted.

“I don’t like being threatened by a snowman, I’d sit back down if I were you.” She said coolly, “You’re ruining my appetite.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you like.” He leaned over the table, grabbing each side with his large hands, “Apologize to the lady, and you won’t hear from me again.” The other patrons looked on with curiosity and excitement at the scene, save for Susanna herself, who was still holding Tulma’s ale in quivering hands.

“Fuck off you piss-headed milk drinker.” Tulma stood up, nearly as tall as the other man, but before she could get out her next words, a gloved fist smashed into her jaw and her whole body was thrown back into the wall corner. She’s dazed. The dining room is spinning faster than she can catch up with it. It takes a moment too long before she realizes what had happened. Another punch lands in her gut and knocks the wind out of her. She’s beat back into the corner, unable to make a move to escape. Punch after punch after punch hit their mark and she could feel bruises forming before she could recognize the room again. 

But _she_ doesn’t lose fights, for anyone. Fuck Nord honor, she’s had enough of this damn city. He reels back just enough to look at his handiwork, and Tulma is slumped into the corner relieved to catch her breath. “Who’s the fucking milk-drinker now, eh elf-bitch?” Stenvar cackles as the other Nords cheer. He huffs like a beast of burden as he readies another punch. But he’s too slow, Tulma summons fire to her palm, the blazing red heat striking its way over her hand. He stumbles, and It’s just enough for her to land a punch, with a crack and a sizzle he hits the floor. Tulma nearly falls over with her follow-through, still frazzled from his attack earlier. She’s mussed and disoriented, but she won.

“It _BURNS!_ ” Stenvar shouts helplessly as he writhes on the floor in agony. His fingers twitched over the cauterized wound, hovering over it as he struggled to soothe the pain. The hall goes silent again as the victor heaves unsteady breaths over the crumpled mess of man below, her fingers still steaming with flame.

“Give me my drink,” Tulma reaches out her hand, bracing herself on the table with the other as she resisted nausea bubbling its way up from her gut. The girl just stares in horror, clutching the bottle. “Now!” She snaps and the girl almost trips over herself to respond, handing Tulma her mead. After snatching it from skittish fingers, she downs the bottle in a single swig, dropping it on the floor. “Is my bath ready?” She says, the fire in her voice gone, replaced by overwhelming exhaustion. 

“Y-yes ma’am! Downstairs on the left!” Tulma nods before stumbling her way to the stairs and out of sight. 

She had never been so relieved to see water in her life. The bathhouse was nothing more than a stonecraft room with a wide wooden tub in the middle, but it was a little sliver of sanctuary in this otherwise gods-forsaken place. The water was burling steam still, and various bottles of cheap soap and oil were advantageously placed at its side. She should probably head to her room and grab a change of clothes, but she was too tired to give a damn. She stripped as soon as the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind her, dropping her tattered robes onto the floor. She took the moment of reprieve to assess the damage. Reddish-purple bruises bloomed across her ribcage in a web of gore, she lightly brushed her fingers over them, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through her side. “Fucking Oblivion,” She hissed as she tried lowering herself into the water.

Despite the tub’s size, her gangly limbs struggled to find a comfortable purchase inside. Tulma was forced to lean back so that her shoulders were submerged and her feet protruded over the edges, dripping water onto the floor. Even in the awkward position, the water felt wonderful on her ailing bones, weeks of dirt and grime melted from her skin. Her head is still spinning from the fight, the adrenaline still rushing through her veins, making her fingers twitch. With another heavy sigh, she reaches her hand up to her cheek and summons what little healing magic she knows to her fingers. The faint jingle of the holy aura echoes in the stone room; It hovers over the reddening bruise on her cheek. As she relaxes, the aura seeps its way into her skin and soothes the pain to a dull tingle before fading away completely. She repeats the pattern with each of her recovering bruises, splashing up water out of the tub as she got to her ribs.

After the deed was done, and all her bruises had faded to a dull thrum in the back of her head, Tulma lay back in the tub to watch her reflection. She hadn’t seen herself in a mirror in months now, and she was a complete mess. Her hair was a sweaty mess of knots, and scars she couldn’t quite trace the origin of dotted her cheeks and neck. It’s getting late, she thinks and with a resigned sigh, she works the soaps and oil into her dirty, tangled hair and rises out of the water.

-0-

Leaving the hall wasn’t a problem. Tulma, despite both her still-healing injuries and the lingering headache from the rather strong mead, woke early and left the hall as quiet as she could. The blizzard that had raged over the town the past few days had subsided, but even without the snowy haze, the town was still an underwhelming uniform gray, from the sky to the stone beneath her feet.

Her first priority, new clothes. It had been months since she could put on anything that wasn’t just a patchwork of rags and leather, and her boots were finally wearing thin enough to get holes. She heads from the hall straight to the market, weaving expertly around the sparse passerby she came across, hiding her elvish features beneath the hood of her cloak. The market, even this early in the morning, was still crowded with people. She became acutely aware of the heavy sack of gold resting on her hip that jingled as she made her way to the armorer. A prime opportunity for pickpockets. She rested her hand on the pommel of her sword.

Another grisled Nord was busily minding his forge as a young woman worked around him, fashioning together odds and ends of metal and hides. She stood at the edge of their forge-yard and waited, watching patiently as they finished whatever task they seemed to be on.

The girl noticed her first and was understandingly hesitant. Two piercing green eyes are peering at them from underneath a thick, dark hood. All but those eyes were obscured from view, and despite Tulma’s ability to obscure herself from the others in the merchant’s quarter, one can always tell an elf from their eyes. When their gazes locked, the set of eyes shifted from left to right, checking for more wandering looks before she pulled away her hood, revealing a high elf a head taller than her, with hair black as night. “I’m heading to the palace,” She starts, and pulls her sack of gold from its place on her hip, “I’m going to need some new armor.”

This gets the master’s attention. The man stands, stone-grey hair with a beard to match, and eyes Tulma up and down, committing her visage to memory. She peered down her nose at him, her gaze unwavering as she was inspected by the Nord. 

“And what business does an Altmer have at the Palace of Kings?” His face is as rough as the leather helm in his hands, and his apprentice only watched them from afar, contempt painting her features. 

Tulma, unbothered, reaches into her cloak and pulls out her amulet. A pendant of a snarling hound dangling from a silver chain. “I’m from the mercenary company of Haegar’s Hounds, I’m here to join the Stormcloaks.”

The old blacksmith looks from her face to the pendant a few times, before a wicked grin splits his already cracked face. “Aye, then welcome to Windhelm my friend, I am Oengul War-Anvil, and this,” He gestures to the girl behind them, “Is my apprentice Hermir Strong-Heart.” He turns back to the elf, “And may I ask after your name?”

“Tulma, of Ivarstead.” She doesn’t smile, but the man claps his hand on her shoulder nonetheless. 

“Well, Tulma of Ivarstead, let us fit you in armor befitting a stormcloak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just busting out chapters like nobody's business (hint: it's because of the quarantine), Leave a comment if you like, if you don't or if you just want to call me a fake gamer girl!


	4. The Palace of Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tulma reaches the Palace of Kings

The new armor was much warmer than her old tattered robes. They were packed with bear fur and lined with thick skins in the traditional Nord style. For the first time since she had left Ivarstead, she felt like herself. Emboldened by her armor, Tulma headed for the Palace. The courtyard wasn’t far from the merchant’s quarter, and it was also the largest building in the city, so it was hard to miss. 

Townsfolk had resumed packing themselves into the narrow alleyways and the odd stone corridors that marked Windhelm, making it a bit of a tougher job to hide her identity than the day before. Although, getting into a bar fight with a mercenary wasn't exactly a low profile move, adding to her stress. Even though it wasn't that far, Tulma made it to the palace grounds after nearly losing herself in the same-y stone walls that lined every goddamn inch of this place. And to her dismay, the front courtyard is almost completely empty, save for a beggar crouched against the small center garden and two stiff-looking guards. She tucks further underneath her hood as she passes the beggar, whose empty eyes reflect nothing but the grey sky in front of them. Tulma shudders. The soldiers stand at either side of the front gate, and she can feel their stares on her as she approaches the tall oak doors. She slows her pace but keeps her head as low as she can to avert their gazes. But despite their glowering, neither say a word as she pushes past them and enters the castle.

The Palace of Kings was also surprisingly empty. Only four guards were stationed in the massive main hall, one surveying each exit. Hardly a force to guard the seat of a national uprising. They didn’t check her weapons, she couldn’t feel any anti-magical wards, and the hall was wide open, no cover to hide behind in case of an ambush breaking through the doors. All in all, if Irivanna had asked her to kill Ulfric Stormcloak, she supposes that it wouldn’t be  _ that  _ hard. She expected this place to be crawling with soldiers and mercenaries alike, crowding out any usurper that would dare enter, her father had once told her tales of the famous hall of Jorrvaskr and assumed the palace would rival its renown. It is either a strange demonstration of strength to need so few of a force, or an advertisement of ignorance to leave their base so unguarded.

Save for the soldiers, there was only one other man in the main hall. Scrawny, for a Nord, and busily shuffling through papers as he stood beside the throne mumbling to himself. Tulma approached cautiously, eyeing up his plain clothes. He had worry lines plastered over his brow and his wiry mustache twitched like an animal as he mumbled.

There wasn’t much  _ in _ the hall either. There was, of course, the banquet table in the hall’s center, filled to the brim with hearty meats and cheeses, and the fair amount of ale to wash it down with. But besides the silver dishware on the table, there were no other decorations. Needless to say, Tulma was confused. Such a renowned hall of Skyrim, and it still felt so empty. Bare polished white and blue stone surrounded her on all sides, swallowing her in their depth. She approached without much notice, and she stood at the base of the platform of the throne, watching as the man continued to shuffle. When it was clear he was too lost in his own thoughts to notice her, she coughed loud enough for it to echo across the room. 

“Shit!” He snapped as he jumped free from his skin, nearly dropping the neatly filed papers in his arms. His eyes glued straight to Tulma, and an uncanny mixture of fear and skepticism took hold in his face, before relaxing into mild annoyance. “Oh, you’re with Niranye aren’t you? Listen, tell her I have her invoices we just--”

“I have no clue who you’re talking about.” Tulma cuts him off and lifts the side of her cloak away from her, revealing the silver sword resting on her hip. “I’m a mercenary.” His eyes are drawn immediately to the pommel of the sword and he squints. She continues, “I’m here to speak to your Jarl, I’m looking to join the Stormcloaks.” His face only hardens further. 

He tucks the documents beneath his arm and extends his hand, it’s a formality rather than a courtesy, “I’m Ulfric’s steward, Jorleif.” She stares blankly at the hand for a moment, before swallowing her pride and accepting it.

“Tulma, of Ivarstead, I’m assuming you can point me in the right direction then?” She tries not to rub her hand on her tunic as she pulls away. 

“I’m sorry, but Ulfric is taking some time to recover, he’s only just returned to the palace you see.” She scowls involuntarily, and to her surprise, it makes him laugh. “Now, now, don’t give me that. Luckily for you Galmar, Ulfric’s housecarl handles incoming soldiers. Speak to him and he’ll decide if you’re ready to join.”

“Any ideas of where I could find him?” She tries not to be course, but her annoyance was seeping through her words.

“Check the barracks, if he’s not there then he’s probably in the War Room, but you don’t have access to that.” He gave her a greasy smile that she didn’t return.

“Right, thank you, your help is appreciated.” Before he could respond she had already turned away from him, heading for the adjacent hall. She didn’t see the silent glower he gave her as she left the room.

She followed the only hallway down to what she assumed to be either the prison or the barracks. From what she knew of Nord strongholds, they were never far from each other. It was narrow, solid stone, and cold. There weren’t even any lit braziers to guide her down the steps, so she kept her gloved hand on the wall. The deeper she went, the darker the hall became, and before it went pitch black, it opened up into a small receiving area, with two more guards posted by a round-top ironclad door. 

“Stop right there, elf.” The man on the right spat, Tulma obeyed the order with a dissatisfied snort, standing between them in front of the stairs, “What’s your business here?”

With a dramatized eye roll, she mirrored her presentation to the steward, flashing her sword, “I need to speak to Galmar, I’m here to join the Stormcloaks.” 

Both guards turned to each other than, no doubt exchanging whatever silent judgment they could convey without seeing each other’s faces. The one on the left spoke next, “Hmph, right.” They share a short, unprompted laugh. Tulma doesn’t share it with them and instead stands there with a vindictive glare. The laughter dies out with an awkward fizzle.

The one on the left gives her another once over, “So what? You think we want elves here?” The woman’s deep voice snaps, “Haven’t the Thalmor  _ helped _ Skyrim enough?” The left guard instinctively reaches for the grip of her sword and bites down on her next few words, “I ought to cut you down right--”

Tulma snaps her fingers, the Calm spell primed in her fingertips sprung to life, illuminating the room in a dull blue glow. The hand resting on the grip of the woman’s sword falls away and both guards are forced to bend their knee. “I-I’m sorry,” the guard on the right whispers through clenched teeth, “That was rude of us.” 

The other guard is shaking with her strain against the spell, but speaks nonetheless, “Yes, we were rude to deny you your place here...” Tulma raised an eyebrow, and twisted her fingers, squeezing its hold around the left guard. “...My lady.”

A wicked and knowing grin splits Tulma’s face. “How sweet of you both to apologize,” She steps forward, opening the door between them as the spell starts to wear away. As she opens the door, she laughs, “There are no hard feelings, I assure you.” Before they can respond as the spell breaks free, she shuts the door behind them and locks it with a flick of her wrist.

The barracks weren’t nearly as full as it should have been. Most of the beds were vacant, either meaning that there weren’t enough people to fill them, or the entire Stormcloak force had been reduced to city guards. Besides the barren scape of the barracks, Tulma could hear a deep, rumbling voice struggle to whisper deeper off in the building. She followed the sound around a common area where a woman was sitting talking to a bear dressed in steel. 

“A Khajit? Ralof must finally be going mad.” the bear growled.

“The dragon isn’t the mad part?” The woman laughed. 

“Dragons I can handle, but escaping with a khajit? That’s just not going to happen, if there was any sort of cat there, it would’a slashed its way out on its own. It wouldn’t need Ralof.” The woman laughed again, but she had moved just enough to see around the bear in front of her. She and Tulma met gazes, and the woman pointed. 

“Galmar, someone is here to see you, I think.” She said sheepishly.

Galmar turned, his wide visage encompassing the whole of the space in front of Tulma. His face was deep-set into a dark bear pelt, with two sunken eyes peering out from their prison at her. He glared daggers as he scanned up her body. “What are  _ you  _ doing here?”

She tried to hide the irritated twitch in her eyebrows as she lifted her cloak once again. “My name is Tulma, I’m a mercenary.” she reached down and grabbed the hilt of her sword, “I was with the company of Haegar’s Hounds and I want to join the Stormcloaks.” She held her chin high, meeting the bear-man’s gaze.

“Oh wonderful!” the woman clapped her hands together and stood, rattling the steel plate of her armor. Galmar raised a hand and the woman was silenced.

“Why would an Altmer betray the laws her own people enforce?” He asked matter-of-factly, stomping into her space.

“The influence of the empire affects us all,” She stands her ground but keeps a hand firmly on the grip of her sword. “I had a farm near Riften, I’ve never known another home beyond Skyrim, and the empire deigns to take it from me. I won’t allow it.”

His eyes soften only marginally, he takes a look back to the woman. “Get Ralof, I have a job for him.” The woman nods and speeds off in clanking armor. Galmar turns back to Tulma, taking another step into her space. “All recruits have to prove themselves. It just so happens I have a job that needs doing.” A wolfish grin splits his features. “There is a cave, Darkshade, south of here on the path to Whiterun.” He reaches down into the leather pocket of his armor and pulls out a weathered scrap of paper, offering it to her. She scowls at it for a moment before snatching it from his hand, maintaining eye contact. “We lost a small band of transporters on the way to our Whiterun camp. I want you to find out what happened to them, and retrieve the shipment of healing potions, everything else can stay.” 

“Excuse me, sir.” The clanking woman had returned, a rather grisled looking Nord skulking behind her. Galmar motioned for him to stand by them. He lumbered over, visibly exhausted.

“Ralof, you will be traveling with this woman to assess the events at Darkshade.” The blonde man’s brows furrowed as he looked from the housecarl to the elf and back. 

“ _ This _ woman?”

“Aye, this woman.” Galmar gave him a greasy, ill-intentioned grin.

Ralof gave another glance back to Tulma, who was still scowling with a hand gripping her sword. She didn’t return his gaze with any sympathy. “Aye then,” he turned to the elf, “We leave tomorrow morning then, prepare yourself and meet me at the front gates at dawn.”

“Very well then,” Tulma ground out through clenched teeth, “if there is nothing more you all need of me, I will take my leave.” She gave the group a courtesy bow before turning on her heel and exiting the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for the books, I'm more excited about the next one if I'm being honest, a bit of a fight scene, a bit of sneaking. Stick around for the next one!


	5. Darkshade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tulma and Ralof head to Darkshade cave.

She avoids the bar on her way back to her room that night, skulking in beneath her cloak like a shadow. The musty smell of old wood and stale mead greet her as she crossed the threshold of her room’s door. She doesn’t remember making it to the old bed, but an empty and exhausted mind makes for a long restful sleep.

-0-

“Took you long enough.” Ralof was standing in the shadow of the front gate, visible only by the light of an old brazier. He’s dressed in his Stormcloak finery, with a steel sword on each hip. He stands off the stone column he was leant against and stretches to his full height. “It’s best not to keep Galmar waiting, we should head out before we lose any more daylight.” He avoided her eyes, staying hidden underneath the horned helm he wore.

“I need to get my horse first.” She shouldered past him and through the front gates. He snorted but didn’t reply. There wasn’t any snow today, thankfully. But the bright sun did little to warm the stone city. A biting wind blew over the white bluffs surrounding the cobblestone bridge in front of them, and Tulma instinctively pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders. She charged ahead of Ralof, ignoring him in favor of the stables squatting at the entrance of the bridge.

Another elf was standing in the shade of the cheaply fabricated roof, blowing puffs of air between his fingers as the large horses whinnied and padded the ground behind him. She’s much taller than him, and her hood obscures much of her face as she approaches. But despite her intimidating stature, the young elf side-eyes her from under the brim of his hat. “Need something? If not, I’m going to have to ask you to move on.”

“I have a horse here, Cheydinhal bred, speckled gray.” She reaches down into her pocket and pulls out a handful of coins. “How much do I owe you?”

“Twenty gold,” he holds out a waiting hand and Tulma drops in the coins. He gives her a thoughtful nod as she exits on her horse. Tulma trotted out of the stable to meet up with her disgruntled comrade.

He was standing beneath a crossroads sign, scanning over his map. Tulma and Nimb padded over, her horse’s nose inches from his shoulder. “You mind getting that thing away from me?” He swats at the horse’s snout, not tearing his eyes from the map. The poor horse snuffed and stamped away, as Tulma laughed to herself. She pats the poor creature on its side. “The cave is not that far south of here, we can make it there and back before tomorrow morning if we’re quick and careful,” He folds the map roughly and stuffs it back into his tunic. He looks Tulma and Nimb up and down, “I don’t suppose you got room on that horse?”

Tulma barks out a laugh. “This is a Cheydinhal Roan,” She gave the horse another affectionate pat, “You’re not touching her.” She whipped at the reigns and Nimb whinnied before they prattled off southward. Ralof just rolled his eyes and broke out into a sprint behind her, barely keeping pace with the horse.

It seemed Tulma was the only one adequately prepared for the journey. She rode a few paces ahead of her counterpart, leisurely trudging the hostile fringes of the Eastmarch road. Ralof would occasionally grumble obscenities to himself and check his map. Tulma stopped as the left side of the road began to descend into a foreboding cliff face, to allow her Nord compatriot to catch up. “I thought the Nords were renowned for their stamina,” she laughed again, “You’re not doing your northern brothers any justice.”

“I don’t need that kind of shit from you, _elf._ ”

She rolls her eyes, “Don’t you Nords have anything better to say? That’s not even a proper insult.” She didn’t get a response. “Well, if you have so little to gripe about now, I suggest we pick up the pace. Daylight will not wait for us.” She clicks her tongue and the horse breaks into a brisk trot, leaving Ralof even further behind.

-0-

“We can make camp here,” Tulma commands more to herself than to her partner. They were perched on a ridge overlooking a river, the cave within view, but a considerable distance down the slope. The surrounding shrubs provided good cover, and the trees would shelter them from most of the snow. It was rather inconspicuous, and not that far from one of the more well-traveled roads in this region. Even so, it wouldn’t make an especially good hideout for bandits. It’s nestled in a crevice of the mountain towering over it, hugged by the river at its front so the only way to enter is to ford the water on a horse or with a boat. It leaves very little room for a quick escape, and Tulma didn’t notice any places that could serve as a dock along the road.

Tulma is off her horse when Ralof finally catches up. She’s digging around in Nimb’s satchel, trying to find her camping supplies. “You should probably find a place to lie down for a while,” She says offhandedly to him, “We’ll head inside tomorrow morning when you’ve regained your strength.” She pulls a tiny leather pouch from the satchel and hitches her horse against a nearby tree.

Ralof tries to hide his heaving breath, sucking in his stomach and glowering at the woman as she starts setting up their camp. “I’ll be fine,” He huffs, “I’m going to find something to eat, you’ll have to come with me.”

“And why would I do that?” She’s already arranging random stones in a neat circle in the center of the clearing when he actually starts to catch his breath.

“Because I can’t risk you setting up some sort of Thalmor trap for me when I get back, so get your bow, and let’s hurry before the sun goes down.” He stretches and rolls his shoulders but makes no sudden moves as she continues to drag sticks back to the center of camp. He keeps heaving through his nose in a failed effort to hide it from her.

“I don’t have a bow, what a shame.” She deadpans, “I guess I can’t come with you.” Tulma smiles as she sets up the sticks in a rough pyramid shape.

“Don’t you elves all have bows?” He stretches again, looking out over the ridge and down at the river.

“I must have left it at home with my elven pride and my travel-sized altar to the eight divines.”

He paused. “Was that a joke, elf?”

“Not even in the slightest.” She stands away from the makeshift fire pit and unclasps her cloak, setting it in front of the rocks. “Let’s just go before something hears you heaving like a wounded animal.”

“I’m not sharing whatever I catch with you, so don’t go whining to me when you go to bed with an empty belly.” Ralof sped out in front of her, breaking into a trot back down the ridge. She meandered behind, mindlessly watching the trees sway in the wind and looking for any more sticks to add to the fire.

It was early in the afternoon, and the sky had clouded over during their journey. The dense and grey clouds threatened to spit more snow, which wouldn’t bode well for them in the morning, or tonight for that matter. Ralof took a sharp turn north and up further into the woods, clambering over the rocky ridge face. He disappeared long before Tulma had time to catch up with him, but she could hear his clumsy footfalls over the rocks from below. Any animal with sense would be long gone by now.

“Ah-HA!” She hears him shout and there’s another rush of falling rocks and crackling sticks as Ralof pops out of the shrubbery nearby, a limp rabbit in hand. “This should do until tomorrow,” He says, pleased with himself. “Now, hurry up and find something so we can go back and finish making camp, I’m sure there’s some berries you can pick or some bark you can chew.” He chuckles.

“Funny,” She chides, “I suppose I will have to eat _something_ ,” She rolls her eyes and holds out her hands. Ralof gives her a confused look before the soft light of her magic blossoms between her fingers. Her brow knits in practiced concentration as frost flits around the digits and comes together between her hands into a small snowball. Ralof is entranced as he watches the snowball grow and elongate, hardening into ice until a sizeable spear is floating between Tulma’s hands, each end sharpened into a deadly point. She lets out the breath she was holding and just like that the spear was released from limbo, dropping so that she could catch it in her right palm. A faint smile crosses her features at her handiwork, and she flexes her hand around the weapon, testing its heft. “I’m sure this will work for now, and if you promise to stay quiet,” She swings the ice spear at Ralof, striking mere inches from his face before he had time to react. “I’ll let you have the antlers off of the next deer I find.”

He barely flinches as he feels the aura of frost around the magical weapon pierce his personal bubble, Ralof just snorts and pushes the spear aside with the back of his hand. “Can’t you elves do anything without your fancy magic tricks?”

She laughs; a real, genuine laugh. He’s consumed with a strange feeling after hearing it, something akin to pride but before he can act on it she had headed further up the ridge. Ralof watches as she disappears into the brush, rolls his eyes, and heads back to camp.

Tulma liked to hunt. Always did. On the farm, it was the only way to get good meat during winter, as her mother kept all their beef to be sold. Her father tried many times to get her to use a bow, taught her to fletch arrows and how straight to keep your arm, but it never took. She was a terrible shot, and many a window or ornery goat was subject to the wrath of her practice arrows. Her sister used to call her the hound, ironically. Because Tulma favored the chase. Every deer was a whole day’s worth of work, she whittled her own spears. and trekked silently through snowy woods, ending with the nightly haul back to the camp. She’d show her father her slightly less than fresh kill, beaming with pride.

The lay of the land was different here, but all the rules were the same, don’t make noise and don’t stop moving. Although she would be wrong if she said she didn’t prefer the flat forests of the Rift. Central Skyrim required a bit more climbing and climbing always meant noise. And it didn’t help that her impromptu spear was heavy, and she had to scramble over the hills one-handed.

The ice spear was nothing like the yew-poles she used to use on the farm, but more often than not, she would be hunting things a bit larger than rabbits and hobbled deer now, years after she had been a little girl training on a cattle farm. The cold numbed her fingers, and the heat of her skin melted a sort of grip into the ice the longer she clutched it.

Eventually the ridge flattened out, the land bled out into sparse tundra and the dimming light of the sun let her know she didn’t have much time left before she could return to camp. The evening twilight gave her good cover, and she kept low as she continued to search. She gently poked at the ground with her spear, to feel for any tracks or changes in the rocks. Just as the sun began its descent below the horizon, she spotted a deer.

Large rack, young, and alone. She’d need to be careful. Stopping, she shuts her eyes. She brings her hand to her face and silently snaps her fingers priming the spell over her features. When she opens her eyes again, she can see the deer clearly in the fading light. The blue-tinted hues of night-eye were in their full effect, but she only had a few more seconds before something would see her.

The spear is up. It whirrs over the desolate landscape with a low swoop. There’s an ungodly sound crossed between a broken wagon wheel and a door hinge, and a thump. She lets out a breath and the night-eye fades away. Tulma got it through the throat. She headed back to camp, the deer astride her shoulders.

Ralof was sitting next to a fire pit of his own making, chewing on bone marrow. Tulma broke through the brush surrounding their camp, the corpse of the deer dribbling blood onto her shoulders.

“Hmph,” Ralof snorts before returning to his sparse meal. Tulma drops the deer in front of her unlit fire and pulls the small bag from earlier out of the pocket of her robes. She unties the tiny strings and dumps a reddish powder over the sticks, and they light without prompting, scorching the wood and sending thin tendrils of smoke into the air. She leaves the embers be as she drags over the corpse and pulls out her hunting knife to skin it.

Tulma feels his eyes on her, but she doesn’t look up. She just continues to flay the skin away from the meat, trying to preserve as much of the hide as she could.

“Why are you here, elf.” The question finally crawls its way out of his mouth.

“Why are you?” She counters, pulling away the fur from the meat.

“Because I’m protecting my home from elven usurpers like you.” He answers sharply, chewing off another piece of bone.

She finishes with the hide and sets it off to the side, taking her knife and stabbing into the shoulder joint of the creature, cleaving off its leg. “I’m not a usurper, “ she starts, cutting into the other shoulder, “I’ve lived in the Rift my whole life, farmed to keep my family alive, and now I must keep my land and my family safe.” She pulls off the leg and looks up at Ralof. “My father and mother died on this land, they died working it like any other man or woman of Skyrim. I am just as much a part of this country as any of you, and I will not have it taken from me.” He stops chewing, and lets the bone drop from his fingers like the waste that it is.

It’s silent as Tulma butchers her kill before Ralof speaks again. “There is going to be storm tonight, we should make a tent and assign watches.”

“I’ll take first watch, I need time to finish preparing this anyway, get some sleep and I’ll wake you later.” She says shortly.

“Hmph.”

Tulma sat at the forefront of their camp with freshly roasted venison in hand. Ralof was curled up in a poorly pitched tent beneath one of the trees, snoring loud enough to scare the birds away. This fated storm hadn’t hit them yet, but she could smell that the air was getting colder. Every few minutes she would have to ignite a flash bolt spell between her fingers just to keep them warm. Her cloak was heaped back over her shoulders, shielding her from the worst of the frost. She was full and warm, but the encroaching cold made her uneasy. It would be hard to get back as soon as they’d hoped if the storm comes by morning. And Nimb wasn’t a Nordic-bred horse, not fit for long trudges through snow.

She looks back at Ralof, who was soundly asleep. It eases her mind a little to not be interrupted. In the satchel on her hip, she grabs her journal. It was leather-bound and old, its edges softened by years of use. It’s been a long time since she’s thought about her family, and she didn’t see herself doing anything for the next few hours. She takes out a bit of charcoal and begins to write in her messy scrawl.

_Hello Symone,_

_It has been a while hasn’t it? I read the letters you send me; I know you might think I don’t but I carry them with me everywhere I go. How is your husband Marcus? I remember you sending me a letter telling me about how he took you to a bard’s show in Solitude… It sounded lovely._

_I know you will not be happy to hear it, but I am here in Windhelm. I have taken up my sword under the Stormcloak banner. But if I must be honest with you, dear sister, I fear for my success here. And yes, before you ask, this is Uncle Iorveth’s doing. I never had intentions to be in this position, but it all seems much to easy a task for me to complete. The walls here are strong but the battlements stand empty and the people who live under the rule of Ulfric Stormcloak accost him for his neglect. Not his Nords, of course, I am speaking only on the behalf of all the Argonian and Dunmer that make their homes here. I am severely unimpressed, am I not important enough to Iorveth that he would send me to handle something so trivial? Will my intel really prove useful? I fear not, and I am not one to make myself a martyr or an assassin based solely on the suggestion of a capricious authority I have only seen in passing._

_I miss you sister, you would have told me not to go, and I would have been better for the advice._

_Yours,_

_Tulma Eilonwy_

There was a snort, and Tulma snapped her head around to look, stuffing the letter back into her pocket. Ralof was awake, groggily swaying as he stands up out of his ramshackle tent. “Sleep, I’ll take watch until morning.” He yawns as he grabs his swords off the ground.

He has a strange look in his eye as they pass each other, however, its no different than any other glare she gets from a Nord. She looks him over, he’s hardly fit to stand, let alone watch, but she’s very tired and the night just seems to drag on further the longer she waits here. Tulma doesn’t argue and doesn’t look Ralof in the eye as he replaced her spot on the log in front of camp.

She takes a cursory glance back at the man as she makes herself comfortable underneath the shelter. He’s slumped over on the log, but he seems to still be awake. She wraps her cloak tight around her shoulders and unsheathes her sword, gripping it tight as she lays curled up on the cold hard ground. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it’s enough until morning.

-0-

Snow is falling when she wakes up. The world is silent, and her makeshift tent is sagging with the weight of the fluff piling onto it. Light filters through the crack in the canvas and Tulma wakes with a start, throwing herself up off the floor and brandishing her sword, heaving. “Ralof?” She questions the air with no response. She rushes out from the shelter, and the camp is empty. The two fires lay long dead at her feet, and her supposed partner is nowhere to be seen. It’s too light for it to be morning. He had left for the cave without her.

She jumps astride Nimb and together they speed down the ridge to the river. It’s rushing past them, filled to the brim with newfound melted snow and Nimb whinnies as her master tries to goad her into the water. “There’s no time Nimb! Please!” Tulma shouts before digging her heels even harder into the horse until she finally heels and gallops into the water. Ice and water splashes up Tulma’s sides and soaks the bottom of her cloak freezing again almost instantly. It’s a struggle but they eventually cross the river, soaked and freezing. Nimb shakes away the excess as they breach the riverbank, coming face to face with the cave.

Without missing a heartbeat Tulma jumps off her horse and runs to the entrance. “For the love of Azura don’t be dead, you idiot.” She snaps to herself. She takes a long look into the dark tunnel before inhaling a sharp breath and holding out her hands. She continues to hold her breath until light sprouts at the tips of her fingers. She presses them together and the Muffle spell primes, spreading across her body. With newfound silent steps, she enters Darkshade.

Some of the light from outside still filters into the cave, easing her way in. It’s not at all ideal, she only had her sword and her magic now. If he had just waited, just for a damn second they could have come up with a better plan than ‘run inside and get killed.’ The floor is forgiving, even with the spell. Not many sticks or rocks to crack and make noise with, no branches to trip her with. In fact, if she were to guess, it felt like more than just animals were inhabiting such a place, but bandits were never ones to keep their hovels tidy. The walls were just high enough to accommodate her standing fully upright and as she moved deeper into the crevice, the tunnel stayed wide enough for her to maneuver in. Like it had been carved for people to walk through. Bandit camps weren’t meant to look this permanent. Fear wormed its way from the tips of her fingers to her spine and she could feel her hand shake around the grip of her sword. There wasn’t any noise either. No skittering mice, no birds, just complete silence. As the light of the outside faded away, an unease settled in the pit of her stomach. Something makes a home here that shouldn’t. Tulma kept her hand on the wall beside her, gently skimming her fingers over the damp rock as the tunnel pulled her deeper inside. If it weren’t for this goddamned mission should would leave that milk-drinker behind and leave him to die with whatever is waiting at the end of this tunnel.

Then there was light. Red and faint in the distance. It stopped Tulma in her tracks; she crouched and approached slowly, thumbing her sword out of its scabbard as the light drew nearer. One light turned into two, two turned into three, and soon she was looking down into a large open area of the cave lit by the firelight of five sconces lining the walls of the clearing. And then the scent hit her, blood and rotting flesh. The smell was powerful enough to make her gag, forcing her to clamp a hand around her mouth. It was a large open space; the floor was tainted but there were no other exits. Just an empty space, an arena. Nothing but bones and stale air. It dropped into the ground and the floor was littered with mangled corpses and forgotten bones.

In the center was an unholy shrine. Depictions of pain and agony were lit red with rage by the sconces. She struggled to steady her breath as the visage of Malag Bal lorded over his pit of sacrifice. The tangled and malformed metal structure was stained with blood, its sharp angular orifice beckoning for the bodies of the conquered.

There were only three figures in the room, two of them standing over one slumped on its side. “What are we waiting for?” The one said, kneeling to get a better look at the figure on the floor. Its voice was willowy and quiet, and it cast no echo.

“The brood mother will appreciate having someone to replace Karth,” The other voice was a woman’s, but deep and scratchy with age. “Once he’s turned, we can convince him to stay here with us.”

Damn it all to fucking shit. It had to be vampires. She squints, staring at the figure on the floor, of course it was Ralof. He was still alive, but this wasn’t going to be pretty if she ended up waiting any longer. Her and Meridia wouldn’t exactly be on the best of terms, but she prayed for her aid in scourging the evil from this dark and desolate place.

“Do you really think he’s alone?” The crouched figure whispered.

She calms herself and swallows the gag forming in her throat. With a soft snap of her fingers, she inflicts a chameleon spell on herself and rounds the corner to descend into the pit. She holds her sword steady in front of her, with one hand on the wall. She inched ever closer, trying her best to silently ready a fire mine spell.

The female vampire sniffs the air, wrinkling her features in disgust, “No,” The woman turns to face Tulma, cat-like pupils sharpening into blades, “I don’t think he is.” The vampire strikes her hand and a flurry of red spirals from her fingers and at the elf. Tulma tosses her body away from the wall and into a roll across the floor, dousing her cloak in the carnage. Her spells break and she’s in full view of the two deadly creatures, her silver sword twitching between them.

The younger sounding of the two vampires lunges up from Ralof and at Tulma, baring its bloodied teeth. She intercepts his arm witch a panicked snatch and pulls. He staggers forward, off his feet. The spell is primed on her palm as she grabs his shoulder and a spiderweb of red magic flashes across his arm and throat. “Send Malag Bal my graces.” She whispers and pushes him back, and just before he hits the ground, his torso bursts open into flame and viscera, spraying across the wall behind him. Chunks of flesh rained down on the cave floor as his disoriented legs collapsed into a pool of blood and brain matter.

She was already running towards the other stunned vampire doused in the remains of their comrade, her silver sword unsheathed. Before the night-creature can re-compose itself, she runs it through with her blade and pins it against the far wall. It gurgles, the last of its life draining down to the hilt of the sword, staining Tulma’s fingers with its vile blood. Its eyes are fixed on the statue of her patron, a fearless satisfaction inside them. When Tulma pulls back, removing the sword from its gullet, it shudders as it falls to the ground. Her whole body freezes in that moment, the rush of adrenaline still coursing through her veins. She is not one to question the will of daedra, but as she looks at the gnarled statue she wonders if it was really Meridia that saved her today.

The front of her robes is stained red, and she turns to Ralof, who was still in a heap on the cave floor. “Get up,” She commands and kneels to give him a hard slap to his cheek. Ralof rouses just enough to see a flash of silver. “I am not returning without you, now. _get. Up._ ” She points her sword at him, and he’s forced to gaze up the blade at her.

He’s shaky on his feet, but he manages to stand, “I think that one of them,” He coughs, spitting up blood, “Got me with that spell of theirs,” he heaves a few more times before he finally vomits, joining his blood with the puddle already forming on the floor. 

“I know,” She snaps, and grabs hold of his chin with her free hand, forcing him to look her in the eyes. She searched his face for a moment, and sure enough, the signs were there. The rims of his eyes were already starting to turn black, and his pallor was getting paler by the second. “Shit,” She whispered to herself. Ralof’s breaths sound like the cries of a wounded elk. She gives him another once-over, before pulling one of his arms across her shoulders, standing him up.

-0-

When they’re back outside, the snow is still falling, and Nimb had taken shelter underneath an overhanging tree. Tulma half-carries, half-drags Ralof over to her horse. “Don’t turn any time soon you ass.” He groans half-heartedly in response as Tulma props him up against the mountain face. She runs to her horse and pulls out a bottle of disease cure, rushing back to her comrade. He’s still not fully conscious and his body is not reacting well to the sunlight. He’s pale and shaking and from what Tulma knew of Nords and the cold, that couldn’t be good. With a rough hand she takes his jaw and wrenches it open, sticking her thumb in his mouth to move his tongue out of the way as she stuffs the neck of the bottle to dump straight down his throat.

She only pulls it out when its completely empty. “The shipment isn’t here. I’m going to take you back to Windhelm alright? Just try and keep your eyes open okay?” Her voice is gentle, warm even. She hoists him up and onto Nimb, covering him with her cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me forever, but I have never been so satisfied with one of these before. Almost five-thousand words and I'm so relieved to keep this story moving.


	6. No Care For the Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tulma quickly returns to Windhelm with Ralof in tow.

The sun is gone when the pair of comrades reach the crossroads and begin trudging alongside Darkwater River, on their way back to the Stone City. The road was forgiving, but the snow was not. Nimb struggled to trudge through the biting wind and stinging shards of ice, her breeding showing through. Tulma just kept a hand around Ralof’s waist, keeping him upright. He still wasn’t lucid, but the cure disease had done its job. His temperature had gone up to a normal level, (Nords were strangely warm-blooded) and his breathing had evened out. They probably could have been sitting warm and pretty in Candlehearth Hall by now, sipping on mead and lavishing in the joys a Nord hall could provide, if her little companion hadn't been such a damn idiot. She would just be happy with a drink and some sleep. Ralof was short enough that he could be gingerly tucked beneath Tulma’s chin as they rode, which helped to shield him from some of the surrounding cold, being completely enveloped in her thick cloak.  
He was partially limp in her arms, and if it weren’t for his occasional bits of lucidity, she’d think he was dead. It makes her laugh actually, the Nord uproar it would cause if the ‘elven usurper that was so prideful she carried the corpse of her victim back to his base to gloat’ was found to have been trying to enter the Stormcloak ranks, her Uncle might just sail back to Skyrim to punch her right in the jaw. Her laugh doesn’t go unnoticed by the half-conscious Nord tucked against her bosom, and he rouses himself enough to speak.  
“Dibella’s fucking tits,” He groaned, his body still staying limp. “Where are we?” She lifts her head only a little, to see over the head of her horse.  
“I think we’re getting close to Windhelm, we’re on the road next to Darkwater River,” She looks back down at him, “Are you feeling alright?”  
He lifts his arms with some struggle and reaches up to touch his face. “I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the gullet.”   
Tulma laughs again, “You probably were, I gave you quite a bit of medicine for that Sanguinare Vampiris they gave you, so you probably will feel like horse shit for a few days.” Ralof groaned again. He stretched and flexed his hand as the groan stretched into a yawn but paused when his hand drifted up just enough to brush against Tulma’s chin. The hand goes rigid as his eyes follow their trail, looking up to the Altmer, who had her eyes firmly affixed on the road ahead of them.   
Instead of recoiling and struggling out of her hold as she expected, he just lowered his hand. “Did you—did you kill them? I don’t actually remember.” The question was soft, Tulma felt obliged to answer.   
“Yes.” She said matter-of-factly, “They were going to take you to the broodmother once you turned. And by the way, what in the goddamn shit were you thinking?” She furrowed her dark brows and cast an accusatory glance down at him.  
“I was going to scout the cave, I swear.” He says exasperatedly, “I was at the entrance and I felt something bite me on the shoulder, and then… I--I don’t really know what happened.” He sounded sincere, but she wouldn’t put anything past a Nord.   
“You’re lucky they were recruiting and didn’t just rip your throat out. If I hadn’t got the jump on them, I’d probably be dead too.” He feels him struggle to heave his next few breaths. “You need to rest, that wound on your shoulder needs to be cleaned and I gave you enough disease cure to knock out an Orc.” A pinprick of light shone bright in the distance, and she was relieved to see the darkened skyline of Windhelm approach them. “I’m going to take you to a healer, and then you’re on your own. I’m not going back to the Palace until tomorrow.” Before he can respond she clicks the reins and her horse breaks out from a slow march into a hurried trot, barreling through the bluffs of snow towards the cobblestone bridge.

Before they crested the bridge’s entry. Tulma pulls at the reins and the horse skitters across the snow into an unwieldy stop, almost throwing the two off. Ralof, still coping with his limp limbs, squirms in the Altmer’s grasp. “What the hell are you doing woman?” Tulma sits back and away from him before jumping off the horse, and only then does Ralof realize he was leaning into her chest as he almost falls backward at her absence.  
“I’m not going to look like a murderer, just stay upright and I’ll lead Nimb inside so you don’t have to walk on those useless legs of yours.” She wraps the leather cord around her hand, marching through the snow ahead of him and the horse. Ralof struggles to sit upright, trying to see the gate ahead of them.  
“Why won’t you be coming back to the castle?” He pries.  
“I want a good night’s sleep before dealing with you all in the morning, and I’m not one to sleep in a barracks full of people who’d rather have me dead.”

Two guards are holding their vigil on either side of the front gate. The one with a shield steps in the way of Tulma. “State your business. There are no horses permitted in the city.” Tulma points back to Ralof, “He’s injured and can’t walk, vampires attacked us, and he needs medical attention.”  
One rounded the side of the horse, to see Ralof slumped forward with glazed, sunken eyes. “Aye, is that you Tolfdir?” Ralof laughed weakly, coughing for a bit of show.  
The sight satisfied the one guard, “You look like shit Ralof!” He half-laughed, half-shouted. The guard waved a motion to the other one, and she nodded.   
The woman looked up at Tulma and the Altmer could feel the scowl through the thin slits of the visor of her helmet. “Get him to a healer and get your horse out of the city as fast as possible.”  
“Of course, my Nordic friend,” Tulma chuckled and flagrantly bowed. Snapping Nimb’s reigns as the large front gates creaked open.

They drew more eyes than normal as Tulma lead their parade through the snow-covered streets to an apothecary not far from the bustling market. She kept hidden under the hood of her cloak, and slumped forward, trying to make herself short.   
There’s a young Nord woman sweeping her front steps as they approach, and she’s startled by the unfamiliar sound of hooves on cobblestone. She brandishes her broom like a lance, pointing it at them with a shaking hand.   
Tulma rolls her eyes and sets her hand on the rounded end of the broomstick. “Now, now, don’t start.” The elf yanks the reins and the horse takes another jerked step forward, tossing the Nord on its back.   
“Ey! Don’t throw me off!” Ralof snapped. Tulma ignored him.  
“He’s recovering from Sanguinare Vampiris, I gave him some cure disease and might have overdosed him. He wasn’t struck with a weapon, just the spell. There’s a bite wound on his shoulder that hasn’t been properly cleaned yet.” She said quickly.   
“Oh goodness!” The young woman chimed, hopping over to the other side of the horse. Ralof was still hunched over, his head beading with sweat. “We’ll get him to the healer as soon as possible,” She grunted as she helped the soldier off the horse. He was more than comfortable leaning on the small-framed woman as she slung one of his arms across her shoulders.  
Tulma hopped up and replaced him on the horse. She watched patiently as Ralof was escorted inside and didn’t ride back to the stables until he spared her a thankful glance as he disappeared inside.

She headed back to her room at the Hall once she’d made sure that Nimb would be safe at the stable. Tulma was tired, which wasn’t abnormal in and of itself. She’d nearly been killed. She had ferried a dying man to a healer, all can be pinned as contributors. What couldn’t be pinned was the emptiness that churned in her stomach. She trudged through the wooden doors and the warmth of the fire and the sound of the merry Nordic song filled her senses. It was familiar enough to ease her nerves. She pushes back her hood and keeps her eyes low as she ascended the stairs and sulked to her room.  
The grotesque image of Molag Bal’s shrine still weighs heavy on her heart, and as she undresses, peeling away the dirt and sweat of her mission, the putrid stench of old blood and vampire musk mixed into a violent Miasma. She scrunched her nose, she should probably buy a bath, but she was too tired to talk to anyone. Tulma collapsed into her bed, but sleep did not come. The emptiness swirled inside her, making it hard to concentrate on anything else.  
How many people had died in that wretched hole? How many were disemboweled under the gaze of those monsters?” Volta had told her stories of Molag Bal, Lord of Domination and Damnation, and how his worshippers beat their victims to thin bloody pulps, and they die crying out for a savior in the dark. The husks of rage and violence would be rewarded for the show they provided. He was sought out by weak men who wish to be strong and vampires looking to praise the bloodline he sired. When Tulma was a girl, these were just ghost stories from a raving old woman, but Tulma can’t get the smell of years of rot out of her nose. Although that might just be the clothes.   
She forced her eyes to shut, and sleep came unbidden and tentative.

She woke early, to the sound of a heavy fist being pounded on her door. “Tulma of Haegar’s Hounds!” A voice commanded, “By the order of the Jarl you are to appear at the Palace of Kings at once!” Another cacophony of knocks. Tulma groaned. Her arms were stiff, and her head swam as it was forced out of limbo.   
Ralof stood proud in front of the Altmer’s door, his broad-shouldered frame taking up most of the doorframe. There was a Nord girl just off Ralof’s shoulder, nervously wringing a wet rag between her hands. “Are you sure _this_ the woman you’re looking for, ser guard?” She said sheepishly.  
“Of course I am,” He replied nonchalantly. He reared his hand to knock again but the door swung open, the disheveled elf half-dressed on the other side. Sleep is still thick in her eyes and her sleepy expression contorted into a sharp scowl.   
“You better have a good reason for this,” Tulma said in a whisper. She was in her worn linens, scowling at him past her nose.   
Ralof’s bravado didn’t waver, “Get dressed, Ulfric and the war council would like an audience with you. The least you could do is give him a response.” He says flippantly before turning away. Tulma is left scowling in the door, facing the serving girl, who makes herself scarce the moment Ralof disappears down the stairs.

-0-

Tulma enters the palace, and the main hall is much busier than usual. There are scatterings of guards lingering around the banquet table and hushed whispers echo on the polished stone walls. She’s dressed in her leather armor, sword sheathed at her side, and her hood is pushed back. Tulma holds her head high and survey’s the room. Her presence doesn’t go unnoticed.   
“Tulma of the Rift, it is good to see you again, friend!” Jorleif shouts over the commotion, he strides over from one of the adjacent halls with a courteous smile on his face. Tulma doesn’t greet him when he approaches.   
“I was summoned to appear in front of the War Council, yes?” Her words are curt, but her tone is soft, and the jarl’s steward picks up on that. He smiles a bit more genuinely and claps a wide hand on her shoulder.  
“Yes, yes,” He starts, leading towards the hall he just came from. “The jarl asked for you by name, Ralof left quite the impression of you on him.” He keeps a firm hand on her back while they approach a large set of doors, making Tulma’s body go stiff.  
Jorleif opens the door with a flourish, opening into a large war room, with several men gathered around a pinned and flagged map of Skyrim. “Tulma of the Rift, may I introduce you to Ulfric Stormcloak.”

“And so, the hero has returned,” Ulfric was at the head of his war table, with Galmar and a mage on either side, “Ralof has sent word of your deeds ahead of you, I am impressed.” Galmar snorted. Jorleif joined them around the table, standing off the shoulder of Ralof.

“It was them or me, I had no choice in the matter.” She stood tall in front of the mock court, clenching and unclenching her fists. “Hardly a heroic act.”

“On that, I will have to agree,” the old mage pipes up defiantly, before ignoring her in favor of perusing the map in front of him.

“You have done well, I believe you have proven your worth, and in bringing back Ralof alive instead of leaving him to suffer his mistakes proves your dedication to your brothers-in-arms. I welcome you to the Stormcloaks, sister.” His expression was anything but pleased, he leered at her from down his nose. His steward’s positivity melted away, and he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, eyeing his jarl and the housecarl every few seconds. “Galmar will show you to your new quarters, but first,” he raises a hand, drawing the attention of the other three men, “I must speak with the Altmer, alone.”

With a scoff from the old mage, all of the advisors receded from the war room. Galmar begrudgingly followed the steward whose optimism was all but gone, leaving Ulfric alone with the woman. The room seemed smaller with the other three men absent, and she’s reminded again of how trusting or foolish this man must be, to leave himself alone with a strange mercenary. Brazenly, she takes a seat in a chair by the door, relaxing into the cushions. 

"Tulma," he asks, "I hear you own a farm near Riften." He saunters around the side of his war table, lording over it as he traces imaginary lines across the pinned map. "Do you have family there?"

Tulma doesn't answer, she's not sure if it's too much to reveal so early in her time here. And she wasn’t in the mood for idle conversation. "Not anymore," she says softly. "I have a sister, in Winterhold, at the college." Symone would probably be devastated if she saw her here. She was never one to abide by their uncle’s schemes, let alone participate.

"Hm, so you have roots here in Skyrim, yes?" He side-eyes her as his drifting hand lands on the painted crest of Winterhold. “Strange for a High Elf to have such a home here.”

"They aren’t _that_ deep, my grandfather still lives in the isles, I've never met him. My father, the youngest of his sons, moved here when he was just a boy." She sinks deeper into her large cloak, trying to hide from his dark gaze.

"Are you trying to discredit yourself?" He chuckles deep in his chest, and the sound catches her off guard. His smile was genuine, and for only a moment, she can understand the need for the other soldiers to impress him. Ulfric stood back to his full height. “It’s almost like you want me to believe you’re a spy.”

"It earns me nothing to lie." She says sharply, "If you think I'm a liar, then I have no reason to be here." She crosses her legs and folds her arms in defiance.

"I am merely investigating," he concedes, raising his hands in mock surrender, "A High Elf in the Stormcloaks attracts a lot of attention, I am simply reassuring myself that it's attention worth having."

“I’d rather not be at the center of the attention,” She admits, “I never liked having to perform my honor.”

This turns Ulfric’s expression pensive, “Then why are you here?” He asks, his voice deeper than before, “surely there’s no greater stage than that of war.”

Their eyes meet for a moment, and for the first time since she's entered the palace, Tulma is intimidated. His eyes are dark and searching as if he was trying to pick away the layers surrounding her words like a bear chewing at a thick, marrow-filled bone. She struggles to come back to herself, too caught up in his eyes to speak.

“I-I don’t believe in the empire, to be honest.” She says, hoping that it convinces him, he narrows his eyes, waiting for her to continue, “...I know you and your brothers believe in your god Talos, or Tiber Septim or what have you, but I just don’t have any love for the empire.” He steps around the war table, entering the fringes of her personal space, listening intently, “They don’t have the power to hold their territory anymore and I think that land should be heralded by her people, not by desperate outsiders. The Thalmor and the Eight have no place intruding on the land of better men. I have no care for their gods, and their gods have no care for me.” She’s on the verge of sweating under Ulfric’s scrutiny, but the answer seems to satisfy him. He gives her a thoughtful nod and turns back to the war table. 

“Your words have given me something to ponder, Tulma of the Rift. You are dismissed, Galmar should be waiting for you outside.” Tulma stands much faster than she needed to and headed out of the war room silently.

Just like he had said, Galmar was the only one of the three men still waiting for her down the hall, several soldiers are crowded around him, trying to start up a conversation.

“Was that the elf Jorleif was talking about?”

“Doesn’t Jorleif think there are enough elves running around here? We don’t need another one stinking up the halls.”

“She’s definitely a spy, Niranye hasn’t even heard of her.”

Tulma hears the echoes of their conversation and just sighs. She doesn’t have the patience for an interview. She takes a steadying breath and focuses, as she reaches back to pull on her hood she feels the chameleon spell wash over her body like water, cloaking her completely. With quiet, measured steps she makes her way down the hall.

“It was the Jarl’s decision,” Galmar broke up their chattering, “Any man or woman dedicated to our cause is welcome in our ranks…that doesn’t mean we all have to like it though.” He sighs just as Tulma gets to the opening of the hallway. “Just don’t go shitting in her pillowcase or anything.” The other soldier breaks into laughter and it gives her enough cover to sneak by them and make a mad dash for the front door. No one notices the spell fading as she escapes.

There’s a man waiting for her in the front courtyard, hood and all. “I haven’t been here in ages.” Vagrin muses as Tulma approached. He looks like nothing more than a pair of red eyes beneath an old hood, and he vaguely wonders how he got this far into the city without a guard turning him away. She quirks an eyebrow and the man’s red eyes sparkle. He pulls a neatly folded piece of paper out of his robe and offers it to her. “Argonian ship came in this morning, they stopped in Cyrodiil on the way up here and a man paid them to give me this.” He waves it a little, tempting her. “It’s not for me though, it’s for you.”

Tulma takes it, holding it gently between her nails. The parchment is yellowed but creamy and still fresh from probably weeks on a merchant ship. “Must have been a lot of money then.” She chuckles.

“Now, I’ve got to get back to my hovel. Join me for dinner, some time will you? I usually make something with crab.”

She watches him leave, and sniggers again to herself. “I bet.” As she turns the paper over, she remembers the letter for her sister. “Vagrin, you know anyone that’s heading north?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one! Woo! I'm on a roll today! Leave a comment if you like, if you don't, or if you just want to call me a fake gamer girl.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first chapter, this fic is probably going to be my baby for the quarantine period. I have a lot of effort and time put into this one, and this chapter has been about a month and a half in the making. Leave a comment if you like, if you don't, or if you just want to call me a fake gamer girl. Also, check out my preview of this fic on my blog if you wanna see a little bit of the direction where this story is going.


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